


nothing's gonna pass you by, looking at the same night sky

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, Waking Up Married, colleagues to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 17:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie wakes up to the blinding sun and a warm body in his bed.And a wedding ring on his finger."Jesus Christ, Carra, what a morning it’s been, and it’s only what, eight?”Oh yeah, and the warm body belongs to none other than Gary Neville.If only that was the end of it.





	nothing's gonna pass you by, looking at the same night sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliccolo (guti)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/gifts).



Jamie wakes up with a splitting headache. The sun is spitefully blinding. It has to be spite, Jamie reasons, because it's never fucking sunny in Liverpool except when he’s hungover. At least there's a warm body next to him.

  
  
Too warm, actually. Not feverishly warm, but the body heat only adds to the sun and the thick, soft duvet.

  
  
Jamie groans and shifts away from the woman. "Breakfast, love? And then I can drop you off wherever you need to go. It's gotta be soon, though, I have training in the morning."

  
  
It's silent for a moment. The girl must be a heavy sleeper, Jamie supposes.

  
  
"Or if you'd rather sleep in, I can pay for your taxi."

  
  
"You're fucking joking," comes the very masculine voice next to him.

  
  
"Neville?! Gary Fucking Neville? What the hell are you doing in my bed? What is a Manc doing in my bed?!" Jamie shrieks, voice going high the way it does when he gets emotional.

  
  
"What the fuck are _you_ doing in _my_ bed?" Gary shouts.

  
  
"It's okay. It's fine," Jamie says rapidly, "we must have drunk too much last night. You-you must have come home with me. I have a headache straight from hell, I don't remember anything from last night—"

  
  
"Me neither. Head hurts, but it's not a hangover."

  
  
"How do you know?"

  
  
"I get sick. Doesn't take much—three, four drinks and I'm chucking my guts up the next morning. And I don't feel like shit, other than my head, I normally feel awful after too many drinks. You just know, don't you? How a hangover feels?"

  
  
"Yeah, I guess you're right, Neville. I don't feel it either. I just assumed. It's more-migrainey. I'd almost forgotten. It's been years since my last migraine."

  
  
"Yeah, but why do we both have migraines? And is this your house? Because it's not mine."

  
  
"It's mine. I think. Looks different though. Different furniture, different—fucking weird painting, that is."

  
  
"That is a Neville family heirloom, I'll have you know!"

  
  
"Gary," Jamie says very quietly.

  
  
"What?"

  
  
"What's your painting doing in my house?"

  
  
Gary buries his face in his hands, and Jamie gets momentarily blinded by a flash of light deflecting off of—

  
  
"Ooh, I bet your missus won't be happy about this," Jamie says, chuckling a little.

  
  
"I-I don't have a missus."

  
  
"Well, your fella, then."

  
  
"I... don't have a fella, either, at the minute."

  
  
"Well, that's strange, you're wearing a-" Jamie glances at the painting again, and then at the vase on the table. The vase his mum had given him when he'd first moved out of his parents house into his own place.

  
  
He pales even more, pulling his own left hand out from under the pillow and staring in horror at the plain gold wedding band.

  
  
"Gary? I think we're married, for some reason."

  
  
“What the fuck would make you say something like that?” Gary asks, voice unnaturally calm.

  
  
“Your painting, my vase, my house, you’re in bed with me, and we’re not hungover... _the matching wedding rings_.”

  
  
“ _Fucking hell_.”

  
  
Jamie checks his phone and curses under his breath.

 

  
“Uh, that’s not all, Gaz.”

  
  
Gary lets out a slightly hysterical giggle of disbelief. “How much fucking more could there be?!”

  
  
“I—we’re still playing. Or at least I am. It’s only 2010, I’ve still got three more years left before I retire. Do you-do you think people _know_ we’re married? You know, if we really are, even? Because if they don’t know, maybe you could just take your things and move out? We’ll get a quick divorce, and it can all be over.”

  
  
“Except for the fact that we’re in fucking 2010. 2010!”

  
  
Gary goes pale and very, very still, all of a sudden.

  
  
“2010,” he says again, softly, “what day is it? What day is it, James?! Carra, what day is it! Please.”

  
  
“Why does it matter so much? If you had a date, I hate to break it to you, but they probably won’t want a married—“

  
  
“ _What is the fucking date, Carragher?_ ” Gary shouts, snatching the phone out of Jamie’s hand.

  
  
“It’s November. It’s fucking November. The 3rd.”

  
  
Gary ignores him entirely. “I’m—I’m still playing for United. I’m retiring in two months. My last match is gonna be on New Year’s Day, I won’t get picked again after that. We—we get to be football players again, Carra. Jesus Christ, what a morning it’s been, and it’s only what, eight?”

  
  
Jamie peers at the digital clock on his bedside table. “Nine, it’s nearly nine! I have to—I have to go to training, I guess, and so do you, and it’ll be a long drive from here to Manchester, you’ve got to get ready, I’ll make a quick breakfast, something you can eat on the way—“

  
  
Jamie springs out of bed and starts stripping off his shirt, walking quickly towards the closet. He grabs a decent t-shirt and pulls it on, pulling down his trousers and his boxers, and yanking out a clean pair of underwear and some jeans.

  
  
Gary stays in bed, still in shock over the whole situation. He just watches Jamie change, wonders—wonders how long they’ve been married, in this world, whether they’ve, er, _consummated their marriage_ —his body certainly seems to think so, because his heart is racing and he’s aroused, to his own shock and disappointment, just from the sight of Jamie Carragher changing his clothes.

  
  
He’s lean, Gary thinks, strong, but lean. Functional muscle, not aesthetic. He watches the scars running down his stomach—they move as he bends and his stomach flexes, his t-shirt rides up a little as he bends to pull up his jeans, and Gary can see the muscles of his back moving as he reaches down, can see the way his pale, strong thighs vanish under dark denim—

  
  
_Don’t be fucking ridiculous. It’s not that. I’ve seen that a thousand times with England. It’s just morning wood, is all,_ he tells himself firmly, getting up and waiting for Jamie to leave the room before he changes too.

  
  
“Hurry up, Gary, or you’ll get fined! You’ve already got to drive all the way to Manchester!”

  
  
Gary brushes his teeth and gets ready, looking at his face, leaner and younger than he’s used to. Not a single grey hair yet, and that annoying wrinkle between his eyebrows isn’t as deep.

  
  
Gary isn’t a vain man, certainly, but God, he’d been so handsome once, he thinks with a pang. He locks the door and goes in front of the mirror, pulling his shirt up to look at his stomach, flat and rippled with muscle.

  
  
He goes downstairs, after he changes, finding his clothes on one side of the closet and Jamie’s on the other, roughly separated, as if he’d moved in awhile ago and their things were starting to mix.

  
  
Carra hands him a plate with a sandwich, two toasts with scrambled eggs in the middle.

  
  
“Dunno what you normally eat, but that can’t be too wrong,” he mutters. “I used salt, pepper, bell peppers, bit of tomato, bit of onion. If you wanna eat while you drive, just—be careful.”

  
  
Gary watches the red creeping across his cheeks at those last two words. It’s ironic, he thinks, that the man who stripped off so shamelessly could feel awkward about telling him to be careful.

  
  
“There’s foil in the drawer, there, you can wrap it up,” Jamie finishes quietly, “and, uh, I made some tea, but I don’t know how you take yours.”

  
  
“Cream and three sugars.”

  
  
Jamie’s eyebrow twitches a little, as if he wants to raise it and say something, but stops himself.

  
  
“I’ve got skim milk, that’s okay? Sorry, not used to—oh.” Jamie moves towards the fridge, opening it, “or maybe I am. D’you take half and half, by any chance? I take skim, but I have some here, I'm guessing it's for you…”

  
  
“Yeah, a dash of that, please.” Gary watches, and Jamie’s expression stays placid, but the skin on the back of his neck has gone pink, underneath that hard-won tan.

  
“Guess we really are married.”

  
  
“Guess so,” Gary swallows the eggs, with just the right amount of salt and pepper, “Must’ve married you for the food. Just got tired of frozen stuff and Mum’s leftovers.”

  
Jamie cracks a smile.

  
  
“You mean it wasn’t just my pretty face?”

  
  
Gary chuckles.

  
  
“Look, Gaz, I don’t know exactly what’s happening here in this world. So let’s be careful, okay? Ask around a bit, find out if people know about us, maybe call Phil tonight to catch up… See what we can learn. Don’t pretend too hard, we’ll fuck it up. And then—and then we can come home and compare notes. Like on MNF.”

 

  
“Okay,” Gary says softly, suddenly very glad he isn’t alone in this.

 

  
“I’m glad you feel it too,” Jamie says, clearly thinking along the same lines, “or I would’ve thought I was going mental.”

  
  
“Maybe you are. Maybe we both are.”

  
  
“Bullshit. Now get to training, Gary, and don’t go showing off that ring, okay?”

  
  
Jamie waits for Gary to finish eating, nod awkwardly at him, and drive off before he sits at the kitchen counter.

 

Being alone is—it’s terrifying. It’s fucking terrifying.

  
  
He can feel the walls closing in. He pours himself a glass of water, drinks half of it, and dials the number he’s had memorized for ten years (that’s ten years counting back from the present, more if you count the time he’s actually lived, and thinking about that is making his thirty-five year old brain ache in his thirty-three year old body).

  
  
“Stevie, mate. I need help, I—I’m going mental. Can you—can you come over, please?” He can hear the vulnerability in his own voice, and he knows Stevie can too, by the way he abruptly agrees. Jamie can hear the jingle of his car keys before he hangs up.

  
  
Stevie’s knocking on the door some six minutes and forty-two seconds later.

 

  
“What’s going on?” he asks, looking worried, as if Jamie’s troubles are written all over his face.

  
  
Jamie explains it all, explains how he’s actually thirty-five and retired and a few weeks into a three year contract with Sky to do Monday Night Football—

  
  
—“Oh, with Keys and Gray?”

  
  
“No, they’ve gone and fucked off after saying some shit about an assistant referee. Said she couldn’t do her job because she was a woman or some bullshit like that. I’m doing it with Gary Neville—“

  
  
“Oh, that’s sweet, you can work together and be married, that’s very romantic—“

  
  
“We’re not married in that world, Stevie! We barely tolerate each other, and that’s just because we work together! I mean, eventually, maybe we’ll get along, but I don’t think we’d ever, you know, fall for each other!”  
  
  
He keeps going, explaining how he can’t be going crazy, because Gary feels it too, how he needs to know about his life, please, just in case he’s stuck here, in this alternate timeline—

  
  
Stevie puts his hand on Jamie’s forehead.

  
  
“Steve?”

  
  
“You’re not ill, I don’t think, you’re not warm. It’d help if Neville was here to confirm some of this.”

  
  
“What do you know about him? About us? We—“ Jamie looks around, as if paranoid that someone will overhear them, “we had matching rings.”

  
  
“I know, I helped you pick them,” Stevie says absently.

  
  
He ignores Jamie gaping at him. “You said Gary didn’t remember any of it either? Not the stupid flirty texting that kept you up at all hours of the night, or the phone calls in the bathroom, or the stupid stories I had to listen to about how Gary was the best fucking right back since Cafu—“

  
  
“I said that?! But—but I really like Cafu!”

  
  
“I know, mate. You were head over heels for him, it was ridiculous.”

  
  
“Does my family know? Dad didn’t have a heart attack, did he? I never told him I liked men—having his son get married out of the blue must’ve been hard enough on its own, let alone to a man. And a fucking Manc, too, at that. Jesus Christ, it’s like I wanted to kill him—“

  
  
“J, your dad loves him. _Loves_ him. Turns out he and Neville, Neville Neville, I mean, your father-in-law—“ Jamie flinches at the term, “used to go drinking together during the World Cup. I distinctly remember your dad saying that of all the Mancs, at least you chose a decent one. I think he’d rather you have gone for Phil, though, probably hoping the kids grew up Blue, but Gary’s the better player, I guess, and he knows you wouldn’t let them support United—“

  
  
“Fuck off, you’d disown me if my kids turned out Blue—hang on, I don’t—we don’t have any kids, do we? This is hard enough, I can’t raise a kid I don’t know, Stevie—“ His voice pitches up, half-hysterical, the shock finally setting in.

  
  
“Hey,” Stevie’s voice is soft, post-cup final soft, “you don’t have any kids. And it’s okay. I’ll help you figure it out, okay? You aren’t too flashy about Gary anyway—I only know so much because we’re roommates and best mates, and I was your best man. Most the lads will ask you is how he’s doing, you just say he’s doing fine, and we’ll move on, okay? Things are going to be fine. I’ll help you, J. I always have and I always will.”

  
  
Jamie relaxes and lets out a breath he’s been holding for what seems like eternity. He stands and pulls Stevie into a hug, tucking his face against his shoulder.

  
  
“I’m lucky to have you, Steve. Thanks for believing me, mate.”

  
  
Stevie hugs him back, tight, and drives him to training. He tells Jamie their story as they drive through familiar streets.

  
  
“Do you want me to tell you?” he asks quietly, “how you two got together, the whole story about how you ended up here?”

  
  
Jamie considers the question. He is curious, especially as it seems like his life in this world had been mostly the same except for this one glaring admission. And he’d like to know Stevie’s version, and then maybe Gary could get the story from someone else, and they could compare…

  
  
“Might as well know what life I’ve dropped into,” he says with a sigh.  

  
  
“You got together a few years ago. Becks and I were injured, you got stuck rooming together on international duty. It was 2007, when it happened. I think it was at the celebration party after we beat Andorra—“

  
  
“You scored two goals,” Jamie says quietly, “I was on the bench the whole time.”

  
  
“That’s the one. Lucky, too, just a couple months later you retired from international football. You proposed in January of this year, and the pair of you were going to get married in the summer, but then you got called up for South Africa, so you had to move the date. Thank you for doing that, by the way, it was good to have you with me for England again.”

  
  
“For all the good that it did. Got booked both times, got the ban, and ended up on the bench when we lost,” Jamie mutters.

  
  
“Gary flew out, to watch us. Watch you, really, I guess. We had a few weeks' holiday afterwards, and we came back here for a few days before we left for the break. You phoned everyone up on a—on a Thursday, I think, and asked if we were all free on Saturday, and we went down to the courthouse and you got married.”

  
  
“Was it nice?”

  
  
“Simple. Not too fussy, really. Suited you, J. But you were happy. You were really happy, when you put the ring on his finger, when you were pronounced married and you kissed him that first time. It was a good day, J.

  
  
“And then we had the reception at yours. You and Gary ended up making out in a closet, and when we found you, you had his shirt half open and your hand down his trousers. We got the message, and left you to it. Don’t think I saw you for another week after that, mate. I’m not surprised at _you_ , but I didn’t think _he’d_ have that kind of stamina, if I’m honest.”

  
  
Jamie flushes at the implications and he isn’t sure it’s faded before they get to Melwood, but nobody comments on it.

  
  
Jamie’s a bit nervous about it all. But the boys are still the boys, and he’s their vice captain and one of the most senior players on the squad, as well as a ruthless prankster—they know not to mess with him.

  
  
Lucas sits next to him in the dressing room, with Stevie on the other side, and he makes small talk, asks briefly during the course of their conversation if Gary’s doing okay, and Jamie says nonchalantly that he’s fine, and asks about Lucas’ family to change the subject, about Ariana and the kids.

  
  
Training is still the same, thank god. Jamie’s just grateful that football in this world is still football, that there aren’t four balls and three hoops or any such nonsense. It’s still hard-tackling, shouting, sweating and hitting and kicking and hugs of celebration. It’s the same, and it’s so gorgeous, so brilliant, it feels like even the air is sweeter.

  
  
He’s never loved it this much before. There are so many things he sees from just a couple months of punditry, hanging about and listening to Thierry and Gary and yes, even Redders, talk about football and watch football and break it down.

  
  
And his body can do it, too. His body is still fit—it’s fit even when he’s older, but the last two years had taken their toll, and every year he lost a little more pace, became a little more fragile, but now, _now_! He feels incredible. He feels so light it’s like his body’s running on helium instead of oxygen.

  
  
There’s nothing like it. It had only been a few months since he’d retired, but he’d missed the preseason tour, had looked for photos, listened for Stevie’s phone calls, listened to all the details, his impressions of the new boys. And then when the season had started again, it had been… odd. He hadn’t had to take sleeping pills before matchdays, so the old insomnia had kicked in again, and no matter how hard he worked out, he couldn’t tire himself to sleep like football had done.

  
  
And it had been bizarrely lonely, too. Rationally, he knew that retiring didn’t mean his friendship with the boys was over, especially Stevie, but it was harder than he’d expected, not seeing his mates every day at training. Redders and Thierry had been lifesavers in that regard. Even—even Gary had understood and given him a bit of a break.

 

All of it makes him appreciate training that much more. He throws an arm around Fernando, hugs Stevie after training goals, lets himself have that casual physical contact that he'd missed so much in those few months.

  
  
Stevie drives him back. Jamie settles into the passenger seat and sighs.

  
  
“I love football.” It would sound like an absolutely mental reaction to a normal day’s training for someone who’d been playing professionally for over ten years. “I’d retired before I woke up here—2013, Steve, just so you can mentally prepare and try to convince me not to. It had only been a few months, but it felt like ages, couldn’t find a new routine to suit. God, Steven, appreciate it, okay?”

  
  
“Then don’t retire, I’m sure you could’ve still played a couple more years when you called it. Wait for me, we can retire together.” Stevie says lightly, starting the ignition and driving back to Jamie’s.

  
  
Jamie asks all the questions he can’t ask Gary, about his family, about his parents, and his brothers. He asks discreetly, if Stevie is married, and feels a dash of relief when he hears about Alex and their two little girls.

  
  
“Oh yeah, my little girls were the flower girls for your big day. Lexie asked first, but then Lily-Ella threw a fit, said that Uncle Jamie wasn't allowed to pick favorites because it wasn't nice. I tried to explain that we didn’t need flower girls for a courthouse wedding, but they insisted. And you just laughed and said they were welcome to the job. It was good of you to let them, J, they was so happy, spinning round in their little purple dresses. Lily was so excited, Alex was afraid she'd run right up and throw all the flowers at the pair of you.”

  
  
“I dunno if this is going to, like, ruin things? But you were expecting another one, when I left. Congratulations mate, you’ll have another little pair of feet running around soon enough.”

  
  
Stevie beams at him, and Jamie hopes desperately that time paradox stuff means that he won’t ruin Stevie’s life by telling him this.

  
  
“You want a cuppa tea, mate? D’you still take it black with two sugars?” Stevie nods, and Jamie feels that little dash of relief he gets every time he gets something right, when something from that world is the same in this one.

  
  
They’re sitting in the living room, feet up and drinking tea and trying to refrain from biscuits when Gary comes in.

  
  
He takes one look at them and noticeably flinches.

  
  
“ _Jesus_ , never thought I’d be coming home to one Scouser, let alone two,” he mutters under his breath, walking across the room to shake Stevie’s hand.

  
  
“Stevie knows,” Jamie announces, “he believes us, and he told me about us, a bit. So we can ask him questions. I think we should get someone on your side, too. Someone who you trust not to try institutionalizing us. I was thinking Phil?”

  
  
“I don’t want to worry Phil,” Gary says firmly, “are you staying for dinner, Gerrard?”

  
  
“Would you like me to stay, ask me about things? Or I can go, if you like. I'd guess that this is a pretty stressful situation.”

  
  
“He’s your mate, Carra, you decide,” Gary says, waving a hand, and reaching into the pantry for the packet of his biscuits, half-wondering how he knew they would be there, and deciding it isn’t worth the mental effort.

  
  
“Come by after dinner tomorrow?” Jamie asks, “We need to talk tonight, I think. Compare notes, make sure you’re not a clone and this isn’t a test run by aliens, or some other nonsense.”

  
  
“You talk in your sleep,” Stevie says quietly, “you told me you loved me once. And when we were teenagers, you used to do naked pressups in the hotel room when we ordered room service to scare the shit out of the room service guys. You hooked up with one of them once—”

  
  
“Right,” Jamie says loudly, before any more of his less-than-innocuous past can be shared, “Not a clone, point taken.”

  
  
“Didn't even let me get started on the real stripper story, J! I’ll see you tomorrow then. Do me a favor and wait a couple more years before you retire, okay?” Jamie rolls his eyes and shoos him towards the door. Stevie hugs him before he goes.

  
  
“If you’re having an affair with Gerrard, we can just get a quickie divorce and everything will be okay,” Gary says when he returns to the living room to clear away Stevie’s dishes.

  
  
“I’m not having an affair with Stevie. And if I were, it wouldn’t really be your concern, would it? It’s not like we’re really married.”

  
  
“Right. And because we’re not actually married, I am going to move into the spare bedroom. If anyone asks, you’ve done something and I’m mad at you.”

  
  
“Fair enough. What do you want for dinner, Gaz? You like Italian? There’s a place down a few streets, they meet our nutritionist’s requirements, and it actually doesn’t taste like cardboard.”

  
  
Gary smiles, “that would be nice, actually. It’s been awhile since I trained like that, and I’m starving.”

  
  
“Great, I’ll go pick it up. Uh, make yourself at home. I mean, clearly this _is_ your home, but, uh, you know.”

 

Jamie flees.

  
  
They sit on the sofa to eat dinner, watching a recorded match from the weekend before. Jamie’s opponents for this coming weekend against Gary’s, conveniently enough. Gary points out the flaws in the sides, old MNF habits dying hard.

  
  
“Shouldn’t you, like, not do that? Rivals and all, right?”

  
  
“It’s 2010-11. We win the title this year, you don’t even get Europe. It’s Hodgson’s time, until you and Stevie get him booted and bring Dalglish back.” The words are blunt, but not unkind.

  
  
“First of all, you can’t prove Stevie and I got Hodgson booted. And secondly, you never know. Might be different this time round.”

  
  
“Well, in that case, consider that a perk of marrying me.”

  
  
Jamie grins.  

 

“But it is Hodgson, though, so I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

  
  
The conversation is easy, easy enough that Jamie forgets to press Gary about talking to Phil.

  
  
Instead Gary goes upstairs to bed, and Jamie follows, popping a sleeping pill into his mouth and swallowing it, Gary’s eyes watching him keenly in the mirror. They brush their teeth, and whenever they make accidental eye contact, Jamie pulls a silly face, and Gary huffs out a laugh, and then they’re ready for bed.

  
  
Gary goes to the spare room, which is made up with clean sheets already, and tries to fall asleep in the strange room. He manages, eventually, only to be woken up a full hour earlier than he’d like by Jamie knocking on his door.

  
  
“Come on, Gaz, you’ve got to be up now. The drive. You didn’t factor the drive in, have to wake up earlier than you did last time.”

  
  
Gary moans unhappily, but drags himself out of bed for breakfast anyway.

  
  
The next day is similar. Easier, because they already know they can coexist, more or less, and routine makes things easier, too. Jamie always takes a sleeping pill at night, and mentions a few weeks in that he’s been an insomniac ever since he could remember.

  
  
Gary mentions offhandedly then he prefers his eggs poached rather than scrambled, and Jamie adjusts accordingly.

  
  
It’s almost frightening, how easy it is to get on. Every night they compare notes, learn what they can about these alternate lives they’ve landed in.

  
  
Jamie’s mum calls some four days in, and bothers them about having kids, before they get too old to enjoy them. When he tells Gary his mother is expecting grandchildren, he chokes on his water. Phil calls a few weeks later, and he mentions offhandedly that he wouldn’t mind being an uncle, either. Gary pointedly reminds him that he has a twin he can ask.

  
  
They’re both playing at the weekend. Saturday at home, for Jamie, and Sunday away for Gary, who has to leave Saturday to travel with the team and stay in the hotel the night before.

  
  
Liverpool win, or Jamie wins, as Gary thinks of it. Gary misses the match, stuck in a bus to London while Stevie scores two screamers against West Ham and Jamie puts in a goal-line clearance to keep the clean sheet.

  
Jamie watches his, though, with his dinner on Sunday evening. United win against Wigan, 2-0.

  
  
The bathroom is very quiet and very still without Gary’s face in the mirror, looking at him as if he’s searching for something. The reason he’d thought Jamie worth marrying, maybe.

 

  
He takes his sleeping pill and goes to bed before Gary gets home.  
  
\----

  
  
They wake up together. Gary blinks at Jamie.

  
“Hi. Sorry. Guess I was on autopilot and just crashed in here with you.”

  
  
“’S fine. No, wait, I take it back. Not fine. Breakfast is the best apology,” Jamie mumbles groggily, eyes closing again.

  
  
Gary grins a little.

  
  
“Sure thing. Anything to keep my husband happy.” Jamie gives him a little shove and Gary’s laughing as he leaves the room.

  
  
“Do you think the versions of us who were here before, are where we were before? Do you think we’ll ever get back there?” Gary asks when Jamie finally settles down to have breakfast.

  
  
“That is a post-tea question. Maybe post-coffee,” Jamie takes a sip and lets out a soft, happy sigh.

  
  
“Dunno, Gaz. They’re probably hooking up in the dressing room and unofficially moving in together. I think I proposed to you in this world, so maybe you’re proposing to me in that one so we can be even.”

  
  
“Imagine if Redders walked in on us in the dressing room at MNF.”

  
  
Jamie groans and covers his eyes. “He would disown me, mate. I’d be Redders-less for the rest of me life. Even if he wasn’t mad I was bedding a Manc, he’d be upset that he wasn’t the first to know about it.”

  
  
“So… do you think we’ll ever get back?”

  
  
“I dunno, Gaz. Been doing some reading, and this is basically quantum mechanics. You know about Schrödinger’s cat? Cat’s in a box, so there’s no way to know whether it’s alive or dead? Well, it’s both. And there’s two theories about how that works. So one theory is that the cat is either alive or dead, and we don’t know which, so essentially, it’s both. And the other theory is that there are universes in which the cat is dead and universes in which it’s alive. The multiverse theory basically says that every universe exists. Our one, this one, maybe one where we don’t play football, ones where we get married to women and have kids. They all exist.”

  
  
“That’s… definitely a post-coffee concept,” Gary says slowly, taking a few sips of his coffee and thinking about it. “So if that’s true, how did we get from our universe to this one?”

  
  
“No fucking idea. Some weird singularity or something? I’m not a particularly religious guy, otherwise we could just say God wanted to have a bit of fun and so he switched us. Or maybe he just put a piece of paper in the wrong file and this is what happened. But I dunno.”

  
  
“In the movies, people only time-travel to do something important. Like in Harry Potter, they traveled back to save themselves from the Dementors— But shit, that was on purpose, they knew they were going back…”

  
  
“I don’t know if Harry Potter would’ve been a good reference for our situation, Gary,” Jamie says gently, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “didn’t have you pegged as a Harry Potter nerd anyway.”

  
  
“It’s Phil. He made me take him to see all the films. And he rewatches them every Christmas. Anyway, maybe we need to do something before we get to go back?”

  
“You’ve already done it all, Gaz, won everything there is to win, what do you have left to do?”

  
  
“Maybe it’s you. Maybe you have to win the Prem.”

  
  
“Then why did you come too?”

  
“Maybe God hates me and wanted me to watch you.”

 

“That’s… quite plausible, actually. God played for us, you know. _‘He’s number eleven, he’s football heaven,’_ and all that." Jamie grins and Gary half-smiles back at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

  
  
But then he sighs. “I dunno. Maybe we’re meant to make different choices after football. Maybe I’m not meant to go on MNF, and I should go for a job at the United academy or something, learn coaching.”

  
  
Jamie looks at him, and it’s been good, for the most part, this whole redo thing, but Gary just looks dejected at the moment, like a dog watching his boy go to school.

  
  
“Gaz. Maybe we’re overthinking it. Let’s just—let’s just live our lives, okay? Let’s just live here and play football and see how things go. And let’s stick together for awhile, okay? If we’re still here when the season ends, you can leave, we’ll get a divorce and you can be free. But until then… it’s not like you have to have sex with me— _not_ that that would be a burden, mind you, because I’m really good, actually—but we’re just two lads living in the same house. We just have to share a bathroom, but that’s not so bad.”

  
  
“Yeah, could be worse,” Gary admits reluctantly, “I mean, I’m sure there’s someone out there worse than you, Carra. Gimme a few weeks to think of a list.”

  
  
“All the time you need, my darling husband,” Jamie drawls, mouth tugging up into a crooked grin.

 

\---- 

  
So they stick with that plan, the plan of just living life as normally as they can. Jamie stops having to ask Stevie for advice about everything. Gary calls Phil eventually just to catch up with his younger brother.

  
  
Jamie cooks dinner most nights, because he’s actually a functional human being and he can take care of himself.

  
  
Gary does the dishes because he isn’t quite a functional human being who can survive on his own, but he can just about manage the dishes and the laundry. And breakfast sometimes, too—there’s a coffeeshop within walking distance and they manage to get Jamie’s coffee right and they do decent omelets. As for the rest, well, that's what he’s got a husband for, isn’t it?

  
  
Weekend routines are a little different, of course. Sometimes one or both of them have an away match and they’re gone for a few days. And that would normally be takeout time for Gary, but Jamie takes to cooking a bit more the night before he leaves so Gary can eat something proper before his matches.

  
  
And living together—it becomes a habit, seeing each other. It’s strange when they’re alone, one man bouncing around in a big empty house. So they get into the habit of calling each other now and again when they’re gone, even if there isn’t much to say.

  
  
“Hey.”

  
  
“Hey.”

  
  
“You’re on the bus?”

  
  
“Yeah, on our way down to London.”

  
  
“Did you take your motion sickness tablet? Don’t wanna puke all over Giggsy again…”

  
  
“Fucking hell, James, _that was one time!_ ”

  
  
“So you did?”

  
  
“Yeah, Carra, before we boarded the bus. How was training?”

  
  
“Okay. Stevie 'megged me while I wasn’t paying attention, the twat. But then he was in goal for Bare Arse and I hit him so hard his left cheek went all red, so that made up for it.”

  
  
“You’re both twats, J. You deserve each other.”

  
  
“You’re a twat too. Guess we deserve each other, then?”

  
  
Gary grins a little. “I’ll text you when we get to the hotel, okay?”

  
  
“Sure, Gaz, good luck tomorrow.”

  
  
“You too. Try to score less than a hat trick of own goals.”

  
  
“Anything’s possible with your love and support, babe.”

  
  
“Fuck off.”

  
  
“Give Chelsea hell from me, yeah? I’ll see you when you get back.”

  
  
Gary’s smiling as he hangs up the phone, and Scholesy is rolling his eyes at what he deems “the most obscene, gratuitous, and completely unnecessary display of affection I’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing.”

  
Gary does, incidentally, give Chelsea hell. He likes to think he would’ve done it even if his husband—the thought doesn’t make a shudder go down his back anymore, interestingly enough—hadn’t told him to.

  
  
After an away trip, he always comes back and sleeps in Jamie’s bed with him. They don’t really talk about it, but Jamie never kicks him out.

  
  
One day, Gary comes home from training and some of his things are in Jamie’s bedroom. Not all of them, but enough to make Jamie’s intentions clear, and Gary takes the tacit invitation, settling on the other side of the bed. The bed’s plenty big enough for the pair of them to sleep without touching too much, and Gary doesn’t mind, even when he wakes up on Jamie’s bicep every now and again. Touch isn’t that big a deal for footballers really. Besides, he’d gotten used to Jamie—he's warm and soft and bizarrely comfortable.

  
  
And when Jamie’s away—Gary sleeps alone, sprawled across the middle of their bed on his stomach, face pressed to Jamie’s pillow and snoring softly.

  
  
Jamie has to shove him a little when he gets back late, push and nudge and cajole until he manages to get a couple feet of space for himself.

 

 

\----  
  
They even manage Christmas—they go to Jamie’s parents’ place for breakfast and presents, have lunch on their own for a bit of peace, and then drop by Gary’s parents’ house for dinner.

  
  
(Jamie’s dad loves Gary, and Phil’s kids climb right up onto Jamie’s lap as if they’ve known him forever, and it’s nice, but it’s another sign that they don’t quite belong here, even if they’ve managed to settle in.)

  
  
It’s December 30th and they’re in bed early, because Gary has a match in a couple days and he’s leaving tomorrow, for the Hawthorns.

  
  
“It’s my last one,” he whispers into the darkness, “West Brom. It’s my last match.  We win 2-1. I barely remember it. Just standing in front of the sink and looking in the mirror, knowing it would be the last one. I didn’t want to cost us the title this year. Didn’t want them giving me a last run out and losing points because I was too slow. Haven’t even told anyone yet. That I’m retiring. We’re the only two people who know. Haven’t even told Dad and Phil.”

  
  
Jamie doesn’t know what to say, just reaches under the pillow to cover Gary’s hand with his own.  

  
  
“Is it—is it better this time? Or worse?”

  
“It’s odd. Feels like my last year at school. Used to walk around thinking about how it was the last time I’d see my school mates, the girl I had a crush on in maths, the history teacher who gave me the stink eye. That’s what it feels like. Like every day is a last for something.”

  
  
“Least you can remember it this time.”

  
  
“And I’m not alone this time. I can appreciate it a bit more. At least there’s that.”

  
  
The next day, Jamie comes home to an empty house and Gary sits on the United bus next to Scholesy, who’s the talkative one for once.

  
  
They get to the hotel and Scholesy falls asleep right away.

  
  
Gary sneaks to the bathroom and calls Jamie, because he can’t sleep. Jamie talks to him for an hour and a half, takes him from a state of low-level panic to quiet, placid resignation, until his body isn’t quite as wired, and he can calm down enough to actually fall asleep.

  
  
The game—the game is the same, and Gary’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or not—he can anticipate the runs a little better, like guessing the right answer on a multiple choice question you’ve gotten before. They still concede, though—off the left flank, there's nothing Gary can do—and they still score two.

  
  
Gary stands in front of the sink at halftime, looking at himself in the mirror, desolate and alone. But he takes another look, too, at how young he is, how dark his hair is, how slim his face is.

  
  
He takes a quick glance around and makes sure he’s alone, and pulls up the hem of his kit, revealing the six-pack he'd thought he’d just dreamed sometimes. He still wakes most mornings expecting a slightly pudgier stomach, still surprised when he gets in the shower and catches a glimpse of himself.

  
  
His lips quirk upward and he wishes, just for an instant, that Jamie was there. He’d know what to do, what to say.

  
  
But he isn’t. So Gary looks at the young man in the mirror, heartbreak lingering around his eyes, and splashes water on his face, going back out to hear the team talk and lead them back out onto the pitch.

  
  
The final whistle blows and he’s on autopilot, still feeling that ache of not getting a proper goodbye to Old Trafford. His testimonial is coming soon, he knows, in the summer, but it’s not the same.

  
  
He leans down onto Scholesy’s shoulder and pretends to sleep the whole way home.

  
  
Scholesy lets him, always kind when he knows Gary needs it, and he loves him for it.

  
  
He waves goodbye to the lads and gets into his car to get to the long drive home.

  
  
Home. In Liverpool.

  
  
With a Scouser in his bed and in his head.

  
  
Maybe it’s good he’s retiring—the idea of Liverpool isn’t half as repugnant as it should be, and the idea of a Scouser in his bed actually sounds _good_.

  
  
He gets home late, half past midnight. But the lights over the front door are on, and when Gary walks into their bedroom, Jamie’s sitting up and reading something in bed.  

  
  
“Are you okay?”

  
  
“Do you have training tomorrow?”

  
  
“Not until late.”

  
  
Gary has late training too. He plucks the book out of Jamie’s hands and sets it on the table.

  
  
“How are you feeling?”

  
  
“I—I have forever to remember, J. For now, I just want to forget.” Gary leans forward and presses his open mouth to Jamie’s.

  
  
Jamie… is less surprised than he should be, honestly. So it takes him maybe a second and a half before he kisses back. He isn’t properly shocked until Gary settles into his lap and pushes his hips against Jamie’s.

  
  
“Gaz?”

 

“You’re my husband. Make me forget. Please. Just for tonight. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

  
  
Jamie pushes him away, gently, and Gary’s expression shutters.

  
  
Until Jamie pulls his shirt off and pulls Gary back, tugging his over his head too, kissing along his neck.

  
  
If this is what he needs, Jamie can give it to him.

  
  
That’s what husbands do, after all.

  
“Lie down, love,” he says softly. Gary does, pausing to slip off his sweatpants. He looks terribly vulnerable, there in Jamie’s bed with wide eyes. Jamie pulls off his own tracksuit bottoms and rolls over onto him, pressing his mouth everywhere he can, hand reaching down to do his best to make Gary forget.

 

It’s their first time. It’s Jamie’s first time with a man in at least five or six years, actually. But after the third time he’s gotten Gary off, he looks tired and completely blissed out.

 

Like he’s forgotten, for tonight, at least.

 

Jamie’s exhausted too, too exhausted to consider the awkwardness of the morning after, too exhausted to even clean them up or drag himself into the shower. He just pulls Gary close to him, resting on his chest, until his breath slows and evens out. Jamie manages to reach out to the side table for one of his pills, dry-swallows it, and he’s out a few minutes later.

 

 

He wakes up late, because he’d slept late, but that’s okay, because Gary’s still asleep on his arm. Jamie doesn’t move, even though he can’t feel anything below his elbow. He closes his eyes and dozes a little until Gary moves, and then they wake up.

 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Jamie says bluntly.

 

“About the fact that we slept together last night?”

 

“We’re allowed to sleep together, you know. We’re married.”

 

“No, we’re not! _We’re_ not _married_ , _James_!”

 

“Gaz. Even if we’re not married, we’re mates now, aren’t we? You asked me to help you with a problem, and I helped you with it. I’m not saying we have to do it every night, mate, don’t worry.”

 

Gary seems to calm down a bit, looks at him a little peculiarly.

 

“Did—was it good for you? You made it good for me, I just—I was selfish, wasn’t I? I didn’t give back.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. You can pay me back when I play my last match, okay? Or after Stevie and I get Hodgson booted.”

 

“Allegedly get him booted.”

 

“Right. Yeah. That. Good work, hubby.”

 

“Call me that again and I’ll see you in divorce court.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, go get me breakfast. It’s fair payment for your three orgasms, I reckon.”

 

Gary blushes.

 

“No wonder I could barely remember my own name at the end there.”

 

Jamie winks and gets out of bed, ignoring Gary openly ogling him and heading for the shower. He takes a minute though, pausing in the doorway and stretching his arms up, and he pauses to twist his torso, to stretch out his back. He turns to close the door and Gary’s red and still staring.

 

When Jamie finishes, Gary’s gone, out to the coffeeshop and back, tucking into his omelet downstairs.

 

“So what are you gonna do?”

 

“Wait until the end of the month, I guess, and announce my retirement. Same as the first time. And then I’ll go talk to the boss and tell him not to risk the title just to give me a goodbye. That’s what my testimonial’s for.”

 

Jamie thinks about it, thinks about not having that last guard of honor. Thinks about not having Stevie come up to him in the dressing room and put the armband round his bicep himself, smoothing and fixing it until Jamie cleared his throat and smiled at him, pulling him into a tight hug that said all the things they never would.

 

He waits until Gary’s finished his breakfast, and then he leans over and kisses him, soft and slow.

 

“You’re a good man, Gary Alexander Neville. I’m glad I married you.”

 

There’s a moment, Gary’s eyes on Jamie’s mouth, slightly confused, and he’s leaning in, agonizingly slow, millimeter by millimeter, and—

 

And then Gary’s phone rings, and the moment’s gone. Jamie watches his eyes refocus and picks up their dishes while Gary talks to Phil.

 

After he hangs up, Gary looks at him, but Jamie’s late for training, and whatever was going to happen clearly isn’t, not right now.

 

Jamie can’t stand Hodgson. He and Stevie do end up getting him booted, exactly a week after Gary’s last match for Manchester United. Kenny comes back, a sight for sore eyes, and they win their next match.

 

Gary settles on his lap again that night, kissing him for several long, long minutes and telling him he’d done the right thing.

 

He smiles at him and lets Gary take off his clothes and slide his mouth around him.

 

Gary announces his retirement on February second. It’s the second day of the second month, of 2011 (adding all the digits of the year gives four, which is two to the power of two) that Manchester United’s number two announces his retirement. Gary likes numbers. They listen.  

 

(His body doesn’t anymore. Not the way it used to, three, four years ago. It's not as bad as 2013, where they'd come from, but it's not as good as 2008, either.)

 

“How do you train for the next few months?” Jamie asks in bed one night, sweat cooling on his back and breathing slowing back down to normal, “how do you train, knowing you aren’t going to play?”

 

“It’s the team,” Gary whispers, “the only impact I can make now is on the other lads, making sure they do good by my club. I have to be an example to the young kids, motivate the older players, lead by example, shout at them until they get some sense in their heads.”

 

“Like a coach.” Jamie draws a pattern across Gary’s bare back, an arc and then a diagonal and then a horizontal line. His number.

 

“I guess,” Gary mumbles, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s neck. He gets the message and they stop talking about it.

 

Jamie just rubs Gary’s back until he falls asleep.

 

There are frustrating days too—days that Jamie comes home from training and goes right to the punching bag in the backyard and hits at it for a couple hours until his arms are jelly and he needs Gary to take off his gloves.

 

It’s frustrating, knowing that a manager had stolen six months of his career away from him, especially because he knows exactly how long he has left, and he's acutely conscious of every day wasted by the wrong manager. Gary doesn’t always know what to say during moments like that—everything sounds hollow, when he’s won six league titles already.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He isn’t sure quite for what—it’s not in him to apologize for excellence. Maybe it’s just an apology that Jamie doesn’t get to feel the joy he knows he’ll feel at the end of the season, the joy he’s felt six times over and Jamie will never feel at all.

 

“Don’t be,” Jamie says shortly, and he goes to have a shower, but then he comes out and makes pasta, even though his arms cramp up sometimes when he’s stirring. By the time they finish dinner he’s back to himself, and Gary helps him stretch and Jamie holds him at night.

 

The season ends the way they knew it would.

 

Gary wins the title.

 

Jamie doesn’t even get Europe.

 

“Where do you wanna go this summer?” Gary asks softly, trying to give him something to look forward to.

 

“You won the league, Gaz, you can decide. I don’t mind. Anywhere warm, it’s all the same to me.” He smiles weakly and he tastes bitter when Gary kisses him.

 

Their post-season parties are at the same time. It’s probably for the best—Jamie would be a killjoy at a party for the league champions, and Gary’s presence would rub everyone’s faces in their failure. Jamie gets shitfaced and morbid and comes home and crashes into bed.

 

Gary comes home, shitfaced, but cheerful, and slides in next to him.

 

If either of them was capable of a sober thought, they might have considered what would happen next, if this was going to be forever, or until Jamie retired, or until one of them died, or until both of them did.

 

But neither of them was.

\---

 

 

Gary wakes up with a splitting headache. The sun is spitefully blinding. It has to be spite, Gary reasons, because it's never fucking sunny in Manchester except when he’s hungover. The bed is cold, and he wishes there was a warm body next to him.

 

"Jamie?" he whispers, wanting breakfast—Jamie's breakfast, not the coffee-shop omelets. "Babe?"

 

The house is empty, and it's _his house_. His house in Manchester. And his bed is empty, and the vase Jamie's mum had given him is gone, and there's no punching bag in the backyard, and no cheerful Scouse husband to be found. 

 

He wants Jamie, half to talk about it, half to hold him and tell him it would be okay. After all, who knew if this was their universe or a different one still?

 

He sighs and puts on the kettle, throwing a toaster pastry in to warm—he’s seen his body, he’s definitely not a professional football player anymore. He’s eating it glumly in his silent kitchen, the only sound the ruffle of the pages of the newspaper as he reads it.

 

He gets up slowly and puts the plate in the sink, because he made breakfast, so Jamie will— _oh_. 

 

He washes it and dries it himself, and swallows the lump in his throat, because _this is what he wanted_. 

 

He gets a phone call half an hour later.

 

“Marry me, Gaz?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 2AM Club's song Same Night Sky, from the album What Did You Think Was Going to Happen?


End file.
